Retribution
by MusicalLuna1
Summary: Charlie's math led Don and the team to the wrong man and now he's going to pay for his mistake.


**A/N:** Ha, I forgot about putting author's notes on my first few Numb3rs fics. I always get a little bewildered when posting on . Anyway.

I'm a new author to the Numb3rs fandom--well, actually, I'm a new member to the fandom period. I've only been watching the show for about a week now, though I'm already up to 3.11, LOL. I'm a Charlie lover, though if pressed I'd probably say Larry is my favorite character. Most of my fics will probably be about Charlie and Don though and their awesome brothershiptitude. Aaaand yeah. Thanks to Jenn for asking for a fic with rain and FBI vests. It turned into this fic, which I'm pretty pleased with overall.

Enjoy. :)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Charlie, Don or anybody else on the team or in the show. Gee, that would be fun though.

* * *

The blacktop of the street glistens like the surface of an enormous mirror, its flawless reflection marred only by the ripples caused by the sprinkling rain.

Aside from the black SUVs shedding pulsing red and blue light onto the rain-glossed surfaces at either end of the block, granting an unsaturated world small splashes of color, the street is very nearly empty. No cars, no people, not so much as a stray bicyclist.

Don Eppes is standing the closest to the middle of the street, his team not far behind. Blood, thinned by the rain, drips down the side of his face in a sheet from a tear in the skin at his temple. His face is pale and he's unsteady on his feet but his features are set and it only took one snarled, "I'm not going anywhere!" for his team to back off on the urges to get medical attention and maybe sit this one out. The bulletproof FBI flak vest he's wearing is soaked through with rain, just like he is, and heavy as hell, but its weight is nothing compared to the weight of what he sees in the middle of the street.

Because smack dab in the middle of the block, his brother stands with another, much larger man's arm clamped around his throat.

And that man is wearing a bomb.

Don paces, rubbing his hand over his mouth, thumb and fingers pressing down on either side like he can draw the solution to the situation out of his very skin.

Charlie's eyes are closed, and they have been for almost two minutes now. Don suspects he's doing some kind of complicated math; maybe calculating his odds of surviving. That thought makes Don shudder inside, his stomach turning because these are odds even he knows.

The scene is finally quieting down after the initial chaos of incoming vehicles, shouting agents, and the clearing of the street. Agents are muttering quietly to each other, rain pattering softly around them and muffling individual words. Don can hear himself breathing. Thinks maybe he can even hear Charlie's breaths, forced out through his throat in tight streams, short. Panicked.

Cooley, the man holding his brother hostage, finally speaks. "Thank you all for coming. This event deserves to have an audience."

Don feels like he's going to snap, fly apart at the seams if he doesn't do something, so he steps forward and calls, "And what event is that, Cooley?"

The arm around Charlie's throat loosens and his head falls forward as he gasps noisily. Cooley plants a hand in the middle of his back and shoves him forward. Charlie staggers and collapses to his hands and knees, hissing. "Please—" he pants.

Cooley straightens, holding out his hands. In one is a pistol—the one he hit Don with—and the other is clenched around a small object that makes Don's stomach lurch. "You're going to be the witnesses to Charles Edward Eppes' execution."

Don goes numb, only distantly registering the way Charlie's face blanches, his head whipping around, wet curls arcing out from his head.

"Exe—what are you talking about, Cooley?" The words are coming out of his mouth, it_ sounds_ like his voice speaking, but Don doesn't know how that's happening.

In his ear, the radio is alive with the hushed rapid back and forth of the team of snipers, calling their shots and asking for orders. Don feels cold inside, his gaze fixed on Cooley's clenched hand.

"This _is_ what you think, Agent," Cooley says, looking at him.

Don croaks, "A dead man's switch."

Gasps and murmurs of surprise ripple out behind him in a wave, the orders in his ear turning to sharp, barked, "Hold your fire!"

Megan steps forward, her eyes just barely glancing off of Don's face. "Timothy, why do you think Charlie needs to be executed?"

Cooley waggles the gun in his hand. "Not just needs, _has_ to be executed. For what he did to my little brother. It was _him_ that led the police to my brother." Charlie jerks, stifling a yelp when Cooley's boot connects with his back. "It was _his_ math that pointed the finger at him and now he's dead!" The gun in Cooley's hand comes down with a crack against the crown of Charlie's skull and he cries out, immediately buckling forward, his hands moving to cup the area protectively.

The cold numbness washes out of Don like flood waters rushing through storm drains, filling him with a blazing white-hot fury that hazes over his vision momentarily. "You _bastard_—"

"_Don!_"

Colby and David lunge forward, grabbing hold of him and it takes the two of them throwing their body weight backwards to keep Don from going out there and ripping Cooley's throat out with his bare hands. He jerks against their hold, but they refuse to let up.

Charlie is rocking slightly, body hunched over in the fetal position, hands over his head. That finally steals his focus. "Charlie?" he calls, worry running away with his emotions as quickly as the anger.

Charlie holds out a hand, his head still bowed against the shine of the blacktop. There are spots of red on his fingers and a dark spot that glistens even brighter than the surrounding damp curls at the crown of his head. Don swears under his breath.

"I'm fine," Charlie croaks, voice muffled, but his voice is breaking.

"You sure as hell are _not_ fine," Don snaps. He glares at Cooley. "He doesn't deserve this, dammit! If anyone needs to be punished for screwing up this case it's me!"

"Don!" Megan says, low, her voice scolding.

"Believe me," Cooley says, "This will be punishment enough for you." He leans down and threads the fingers around the gun into Charlie's hair and drags him upright, tearing a cry of pain from his throat. Then Cooley releases him and the gun is pointed at the back of Charlie's head. Icy cold tendrils of fear wind up and around Don's lungs.

The finger around the trigger begins to squeeze.

"WAIT!" Don shouts, his knees going weak. He shakes out of Colby and David's grip and staggers forward, holding out his hands. Fear is so thick on his tongue he can taste it, making him dizzy. He steps forward again and he begs. "Please. Wait. Just—let me say goodbye. You...you got to say goodbye to Martin. Let me say goodbye to Charlie. Please."

The quiet on the street falls more heavily than ever, everyone holding their breaths as they wait for Cooley's reply.

Don's chest is burning from lack of air when Cooley finally says, "You're right." The gun drops and he takes a step back. "Come. Say goodbye to your brother."

There is no relief when he breathes again, just more pain.

Megan gives him a look, asking wordlessly, _What are you doing?_

Don doesn't know. But even if he can only buy a few more minutes, a few more seconds, he has to try. So he swallows and moves to join his little brother where he kneels in the middle of the street.

Charlie looks up as he drops to his knees, rasping, "Don." His name vibrates with fear, pleading with him to make it all go away.

Putting his hand around the back of Charlie's neck, Don leans forward. "It's okay, Buddy. It's going to be okay."

"How?" Charlie whispers and there are tears hanging in his eyes.

Don tilts his head down, touching Charlie's forehead with his own. "Just trust me, okay? Everything is going to be fine."

Charlie nods rapidly and his eyes avert, dropping to the pavement between them as one droplet spills over. Don feels his chest fracturing into painful shards and he reaches up, dragging Charlie into a rough hug. "Trust me."

Again, Charlie nods, a reassuring movement against Don's shoulder. "Okay," he says hoarsely. "I do."

Don squeezes the back of his neck and then gently pulls back, heart breaking as Charlie resists their separation. Don coughs as he gets to his feet, sniffing and swiping his wrist beneath his nose. Then, even though it kills him, says, "'Bye, Charlie."

The look of raw terror on Charlie's face nearly destroys him.

He turns his back on his brother and walks away.

"Now that that's been taken care of," Cooley says, his voice echoing around the empty street.

Don hears the rustle of his jacket as his arm comes up again, hears the metallic click as the hammer pulls back on the gun, hears Charlie whisper, "Oh my god," voice shaking like Don's hands are. "Don...!"

He can't turn around. He can't do it. He can't he can't he can't.

And then...

Nothing happens.

"Agent Eppes," Cooley calls, "Turn around."

Don shakes his head and it's a struggle to speak past the restriction of his throat. "No."

Charlie cries out, swearing, and Don flinches, but he can't turn around. He will _not_ turn.

"Agent Eppes, this is your brother's hour of need. Will you deny him?"

"No," Don grits out and then goes cold at the sound of a scuffle behind him. Cooley shouts and he turns; a gunshot goes off, reverberating off the buildings.

Don staggers and falls, landing hard on his ass. Charlie is hunched over, hands over his head again. Colby and David have one of Cooley's arms each, their shouting growing louder, Colby's hand wrapped in an iron grip around the hand clutching the dead man's switch. Dozens of agents are flooding in to help, blocking Charlie from sight. Don lurches to his feet again, one hand clamped unconsciously over his thigh, which feels like it's been set on fire and dipped in liquid nitrogen. But all that matters is— "_Charlie!_"

"D-Don?"

Two agents move out of the way and there's Charlie, being helped to his feet by a pair of agents. Cooley is—he doesn't care where the fuck Cooley is, Charlie looks like he's about to come apart at the seams. Don shoves his way through the crowd, stifling cries as the burning in his thigh explodes into fireworks with every hobbling step forward. Charlie practically hurls himself into Don's arms and his vision whites out completely for a moment, but he grabs hold of his brother and refuses to let go.

"Don, Don, Don, I-I— _Don_," Charlie just keeps stammering and repeating his name, glimmering tears streaking down his face and joining the rain already soaking Don's clothes.

"It's okay, Buddy, it's okay. Everything's okay. You're okay now," Don says. He's trying to keep his legs steady, but he seems to be losing control of them. His weight is too much for Charlie and he drags him down, too, when they finally give out. Charlie's gibbering turns to panic and he pulls back, just enough to start looking, feeling. A second later he gasps in horror and starts screaming for help.

Don grabs his arms and says, "Charlie, calm down, it's okay, they got Cooley. You're fine. Come on, Buddy, you're _fine._"

"But you're _not!_" Charlie bursts.

More people are gathering around them talking and then shouting. There's a shrill ringing in his ears and Charlie's face is going so white it's starting to glow. The colors of the flashing lights and the bright yellow of the FBI logo all around have turned psychedelic and he feels dizzy, the street spinning and spinning. Charlie shifts further away from him it seems and he clamps his hand down around Charlie's wrist; he's going to stay here. Close.

"It's okay," he murmurs. "You're okay, Charlie. Everything's okay."

And then words are gone, swallowed up by pain.

~ * ~

"Seriously," Don mutters groggily when he wakes up almost eighteen hours later after intensive surgery for the gunshot wound sustained to his upper thigh, "'m okay."

Someone has pulled some serious strings because Charlie is sitting in the bed next to his watching him with his forehead twisted in knots. "Don, people who are okay do not spend nine hours in surgery. People who are okay don't almost bleed out on the street while their brother sits there, not doing a damn thing. People who are okay—"

"I get the point, Charlie," he mumbles. "'M not okay. _Will_ be though," he points out.

Charlie's knees curl up toward his chest, Don getting a brief flash of the dark scabs covering his knees. There's faint purple bruising around his throat and Don can tell by the way he's rubbing his temple that he has a headache, but there's no bandaging around his head.

"Wha'd about you?" Don asks, trying to resist the heavy pull of his eyelids.

He gets a shake of Charlie's head in response; a scoff. "Me? Don, really. How can you get _shot_ and be worried about _me?_"

Don's eyebrows draw down, a frown settling onto his features. "Charlie, I was scared out of my mind today. Or yesterday... Whatever. That guy almost actually got away with _killing you_ in a public place." He shook his head, unable to find the words to continue for a moment. "I...I never woulda forgiven myself."

Surprise blooms on Charlie's face—sometimes, for a genius, Charlie is a complete idiot—and he leans forward, legs slipping out of the bed, toes stretching out to the floor. The picture of earnest. "What? Don, that— How— That doesn't even make any sense!"

Don shakes his head, eyes drifting closed. "Love never makes sense, Buddy."


End file.
